We were
young.
Our shouts echoed around the
continuum. Shouted back a
tinkling clamor. Heard it come again.
Spit out
our sorrow from the last time, the deep regrets that
Time had colored black. It painted itself
thick across the everything.
We ran
uphill for
hours,
looking forward, ran and with us ran the
silver stars. (
Which is to say, ourselves.) We ran until we could no longer see, for
all the light and humming
brightness.
That was the peak. That was
the instant.
Nothing had been set. At that point,
anything could still happen.
After, we slogged back to
the studio and drew up
battle plans. "How should be begin this time?", we asked ourselves.
One of us walked over to the inky, twinkling sandbox, started scratching
lines and arrows in the dust.
Diagrams of mirrors. We asked her what and she
drew on. We asked her how and she said, "Let there be light." And we said "Oh. We see. This time it will reflect us."
